Agol
(#36914476)
Level 1 Imperial
Familiar
Smokebillow Sham
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Imperial
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
24.86 m
Wingspan
23.09 m
Weight
5949.91 kg
Genetics
Crimson
Iridescent
Iridescent
Sanguine
Shimmer
Shimmer
Crimson
Crackle
Crackle
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
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In the heart of the Scarred Wasteland lies the Wyrmwound: a pulsating cauldron of pestilence in which the Plaguebringer herself creates new and terrifying forms of disease. Only the bravest or most foolhardy would choose to live near its rim; only the craziest would think to nest and raise hatchlings there. Yet it can be home to those born to the service of their mother. Such was the thought of a pair of imperials who tended their clutch of eggs not far from the Wyrmwound. They had nested here before without incident; their children had grown into great survivors, ready to take on anything the world threw at them. Something was different this time, something subtle. There had been great unrest in the earth and the air and the water. Voices of untold number whispered in seductive tones of a great change for which the clans would need to unite… or perish. Rumor outraced the wind in telling that certain hatchlings were being chosen by their respective deities to spread far and wide their teachings. Perhaps it was this restlessness that shifted the earth slightly towards the Wyrmwound, turning what was once flat ground into an incline. Late one night, an egg rolled. An egg rolling accellerates as gravity takes over. This seems to increase as soon as a parent notices the movement. When said parent takes notice, time itself seems to slow as danger approaches. Thus when she saw her unborn hatchling making its way towards the Wyrmwound, Pyrope felt her world stretch into forever as she reached out to catch the wayward egg. It was a close call, but she managed to capture it on the edge of the great rift that marked the edge of the Plaguebringer’s brew. Close, as they say, only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. The egg’s adventure did not end here. In fact it had barely begun; no one could say what made the contents of the Wyrmwound shift just so, but a splash of something hit the eggshell as the frantic mother reached for it with her claws. Perhaps it was the touch of the Plaguebringer protecting her concoction, or perhaps it was simply fate. Either way, when Pyrope returned to her nest, the green slime-covered shell was marked with the blood-red sign of the Plaguebringer.
--x--x--x--
Young Agar was hiding. Again. In a place where everyone’s survival relied on being the best at something, Agar was consistently in the middle of the pack. Being unable to best anyone completely, but not being bested constantly meant that she was neither a bully, nor a victim. She simply was. Right now, what she was was alone. She liked it that way; the curiously shifting landscape held no terrors for her. The malignant growths that reached out for anything they could touch reached past the young imperial. She liked to watch them pulse and grow and mutate as the whims of their creator shifted. The slime molds that consumed anything living were a lot like her; they simply were. There were always stories and rumors going around about what was happening outside the narrow realm of the Plaguebringer. There were claims of great celebrations and of dragons barely out of hatchlinghood being hailed as saviors and ambassadors and otherwise signs of there being a New Age incoming. Such sentiments made Agol want to gag. Secretly though, she was hopeful. After all, before there was a New Age, first an Old Age must come to an end. That meant death, decay, rot, and all the things that made something beneath her scales tingle with anticipation. All things must come to an end; after all, without endings, how can there be beginnings? Agar watched a tendril of slime reach towards the skull of something long dead. Whatever it was, it had been stripped clean by other scavengers long ago. The empty braincase had been her favorite place to pass the time until she outgrew it not long before. The back of the skull was gone now; she had taken it off to make an offering bowl for the Plaguebringer. It sat in her chamber now, ready to be filled and gifted to the deity at the conclusion of the Riot of Rot. Agol was proud of her creation; it was not overly ornate, nor unadorned, but it had an elegance all its own in simplicity. This year, she would be old enough to drink a toast to the Plaguebringer alongside her parents. The festivities began in earnest at dawn. This was neither a festival that celebrated in either shadow or daylight; death, after all, could come at any time. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die,” was the philosophy here. Memento Mori. The Danse Macabre. Dragons all around wore boneware finery and painted themselves in patterns reminiscent of skeletons. What was not bone was the distinct rust-red of dried blood or the brighter sanguine of fresh blood. Only the dull green-grays and browns of decay appeared to complement the white of bone and red of blood. As all festivals in Sornieth do, the Riot of Rot held sway for a week. Around the heart of the Scarred Wasteland, only plague dragons danced and sang to honor the Plaguebringer; all visitors confined themselves to more survivable regions. The Wyrmwound belonged to the children of the rot alone. The time came for the final toast. All of the plague dragons of age brought out their receptacle of choice and filled it to the brim with the potent drink some called blood-wine. It was brewed from the strange plants that managed to bear fruit amidst the festering blight. It made the drink even more potent than any brewed outside the Scarred Wasteland. Agol lifted her skullcap cup to be filled. As the blood-wine poured into the cup, a silence grew around her. Agol looked up to see the other dragons staring as a slime mold, sickeningly green and glowing, reached tendrils of itself towards her. Agol smiled and poured a little bit of her drink on the ground for the intruder. “Eat, drink and be merry, friend, for one day we will die.” She murmured. The slime mold absorbed the liquid. Then to the astonishment of everyone, the mold changed, shaping itself into a slightly circular form. In the center, it became reflective like a mirror. To Agol’s astonishment, she found herself staring into the face of the Plaguebringer herself. “Well met, young one. It gladdens my soul to see that my kin still know how to seek out the beauty in decay. Death, after all, is only the beginning. It is time the rest of Sornieth learns this lesson, and learns it well.” The Plaguebringer nodded. “Here is my challenge to you, young one. Will you be my teacher? Will you be the champion for all that must one day expire to make way for change?” Agol thought for a moment, remembering the rumors from long ago about there being chosen ones of all the Flights. She looked down at her cup: not too ornate, not too plain. Just like her. A clawed hand reached out to her. In its palm was a scrap of eggshell, still pulsing green. In its center was a red scar in the shape of the Plaguebringer’s sign. Agol looked up to see herself reflected in her mother’s enormous red eyes. In those eyes, she saw loss, but also hope. Hope that her daughter could bring greatness to her Clan and to her Flight. Agol tipped a little more blood-wine to the image of the Plaguebringer and then drank deeply herself. The pact was sealed. | xxxx |
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artist | PastCat (lore writer) | trainer
artist | PastCat (lore writer) | trainer
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